


Something Under Our Skin

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Play, Body Worship, Drug Use, M/M, Monster Fucking Nerds, Oral Sex, Rimming, They're Both Fascinating To The Other, Wet & Messy, Witcher Biology (The Witcher), Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Geralt loves Regis's body. He loves the way he moves and the feel of his skin. The taste of his nails and the gleam of his fangs. There is no part of Regis he does not want to worship, in any of his forms.When, a decade after the massacre at Beauclair, Regis's thumb is delivered by a gaggle of gloating Bruxa, Geralt decides he'll make Regis part of him forever.A month after that night, the mutagens are finally settling. So why is Regis in front of him? With Geralt's own body as the new thing to explore, the memories of their first night exploring each other create the backdrop for the present.This time, the sharp fangs they are exploring are the witcher's, not the vampire's.---“Geralt, there is sentimental, and then there is deciding, on hearing your lover is dead, that you must make him a part of you forever. Quite literally.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	1. Sentimental Mutagens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flirtygaybrit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/gifts).



> I heard you liked Teratophilia so I put flashbacks to Teratophilia in your Teratophilia... I am not even a little bit sorry. I really hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> I still can't believe I wrote 11k words of Geralt and Regis basically just exploring each other's bodies and being big ole retired sappy nerds together.

Geralt stared at the Regis, unable to believe his eyes. His mind couldn’t process it. He tried again, sure, with sudden certainty that the mutagens he had taken were messing with his mind. 

Alive. Regis, is not dead in Nilfgaard like he had heard. Like the Bruxa had taunted him, when they attacked to give him Regis’s thumb. To tell him the debt he had incurred killing another higher vampire with Regis had been paid. He had killed the messenger and hadn’t felt any remorse for it. Let the Elder crawl from his lair and Orianna slither out from her mansion bolthole. He in that moment no longer cared to save face or keep the tentative veil of polite fiction alive.

The hours that passed were a blur. Geralt had been a bit mad with grief and upset, consumed by some reckless crazed frenzy that night. He had barely remembered stumbling to the lab and decocting mutagens with what he had been convinced were the last bits of Regis. Anything to keep the vampire closer to him. To cling onto some piece of the now forever gone vampire in a haze he didn’t look at too closely lest he start seeking the Path for utterly selfish reasons. 

But- somehow, after weeks of agony, of recovery from his own foolish choices, Regis is. Here. Or he’s finally broken with reality. It’s possible. Probable even. His own nails are a bit sharper now, he notes they are fully regrown from where he had trimmed them not an hour before. The way light seems to shift and bend around them, as if being sliced by them, had left him staring at his own hands like a dullard that first morning after he had taken so many mutagens all at once. Even now, over a month later, he gets caught by the newness of it all. His eyes have become even keener than they were, the only reason he thinks he is so aware of these changes to his hands. It isn’t the only change. He swears he can hear the flow of blood within others. Can almost trace the heat of his human majordomo and cook long after they have left the room. 

It’s been like his third trials. It’s been overwhelming. It’s been a neverending isolating horror. Geralt swallows hard as his fingertips brush and trace along Regis’s sideburns, almost begging for the sheer overwhelming input of that feeling to make this somehow real. It's familiar, yet at the same time completely new. 

The sight of that curl of smile, somehow softly warm even as it seemed to chide him, the way those incredible and utterly inhuman eyes sparkled with an oily sheen over the neverending black pools that had always drawn him in. All these little details, the bristle of some hairs, the slippery smooth slide of others, the cottony whisps near the ears and along that hyper-defined temple. Even the ridge along the sides of the forehead, the thick veins that fascinated him even before he had lost Regis that first time over two decades ago. 

Even without seeing Regis, it had been fine to be parted. Fine to be here without him. Yet, here and now. Regis was in his bedroom, the moonlight streaming in behind and around him the only light in the room and yet to Geralt’s eyes it was as if they were in daylight. He soaked in every detail, fingers trembling as he tried to angle his nails away from Regis’s flesh. Something was shaking, and he couldn’t be sure what, till he really took in the fact it was him. 

Regis’s own hand, so gnarled and potion stained as it ever was, cupped over his own. The sharp edges of his own nails pressed into the hair, yet Regis’s own seemed smoother by comparison as he dragged his fingers along the new feel of Geralt’s hands. 

Geralt’s teeth itched, eyes bouncing from detail to detail as he tried to soak it all in. Soak Regis- being alive, and here, and, with him- into his bones. Geralt’s throat clicked as he tried again and again to make any sound come out. Regis beat him to it, the tone of that oh so familiar and slightly sardonic voice making everything seem all the more real. “Geralt, I do believe when I last teased you about having Vampire traits from mutagens, it wasn’t exactly my blood and flesh involved.”

All the air Geralt had been trying to push to form words escaped in a long burst of noise and his eyes went unfocused as he buried his face into a musty and decaying tunic. Geralt choked sounds against the rough and ragged cloth, the gentle pressure of Regis’s hands against his hair, along the nape of his neck and crown of his head through the hair, was like a blessing. Geralt’s entire weight didn’t stagger Regis for even a second. It never had. 

Geralt’s own arms gripped with a creaking desperation around Regis’s chest. The palms pressing to the worn fabric less a hindrance to the nearly full body hug, and more a sign of how urgently Geralt needed to feel it was real. The fabric didn’t stand much of a chance, tearing under his fingers, even as the curling points of his nails seemed to slice through cotton and leather like so much butter. 

Regis only moved his arms, one palm cupping the back of his head, wrist brushing cool along the nape of his neck. The other arm and hand moved to the small of his back, soothing and rubbing along over the nightshirt that was all Geralt had been wearing, from some desperate attempt to find even a bit of sleep before Regis had arrived. 

The weighty itching behind his teeth increased, despite how he wasn’t doing anything like eating or drinking. His nose picked up a hundred herbs, different mandrake decoctions, potions, the threads of the shirt, the moulder and bouquet of torn fabric leaving puffs of scents to invade his nose. Yet, the only scent he cared for was the one just under Regis’s ear. That strip of flesh between sideburns and hair, the curve of ear, where the scent of Regis was strongest. 

There was no direct comparison for that unique scent, for that unique presence that is purely the vampire before him. He could tell the thumb was from Regis even without anything at all being said. That it hadn’t regenerated the way Dettlaff’s body had not regenerated, had made him something in him scream without words or even sound. 

But here, fresh, raw, undiluted, is the scent proof that Regis is alive. Geralt can’t even understand his nipping at that flesh till he’s being gently pried up. Regis’s tongue clicks his teeth, his tone fond and wondering even as the words are sharper. “Somehow, I feel there is a wonderful explanation for why you now have fangs. Especially as you just tried to use them on me.” 

The room is too bright, it’s blinding for Geralt as he blinks owlishly. His entire body aches, feels like when he was growing too fast on Sad Albert. Feels like when his bones all became denser and his lungs remade themselves five fold more efficient. 

The grip on his head, on his shoulder, is firm and immovable, even as it is so gentle in moving him back. Geralt’s voice finally works itself free of its tangle in his throat. “You were always saying if you could leave one thing to me it would be your wisdom. Thought to myself, I could use some of that. Your finger wasn’t regrowing.” It’s a jumbled tangle of things he wants to say and doesn’t understand why he’s saying it. That last fact, even with Regis right before him, aches like a sucking gut wound, festering in his belly. 

That itching is back, vaguely he remembers that the way his teeth itch is similar to how his eyes would itch, back before the second trials. When he was overly emotional or upset, that itch would take him and remind him to keep it inside. He carefully closes his lips- jaw feeling weird where the teeth don’t match up. Nothing matches up and there is the scent of something tantalizing in the air. 

Geralt tracks the smell absently as he is held at arm’s length, eyes drawn to where Regis’s padded armor shirt and leather vest are gaping, sagging from long slices that seem to have made ribbons of the material. Geralt swallows hard, knowing, without having to look, that there is blood on his hands. That scent, that smell, is blood. Geralt shudders, pressing the soles of his feet against the floor, lifting into the hold Regis has him kept in so intractably. 

Regis makes that clicking noise with his tongue again. “Geralt, there is sentimental, and then there is deciding, on hearing your lover is dead, that you must make him a part of you forever. Quite literally.” There is a bemused fondness to the tone but that look on his face is one that speaks of slight exasperation. Geralt has spent so many years gazing at Regis, enjoying the quiet moments in his little cottage so long ago, that he reads all the subtle little facial movements as if they were second nature to translate. He doesn’t actively process the faint narrowing of eyes or the slight change of angle to the corner of the lips, or the jut of jaw- yet he reads them all the same. 

Geralt doesn’t have any reasonable response. He had known even as he had created the decoctions, that Regis himself would have chided him for it. Yet even in the morning, as the pain had settled in from such wildly new mutations, he hadn’t found it in himself to truly regret his choices. He finds himself smiling despite himself, too giddy from the familiar comfort of having Regis in his life once more to suppress the urge. “We have got to stop having decades between meetings. Last time, it led to me nearly fighting all of Redania and Nilfgaard, this time it ended in me taking mutagens.” He was teasing, that edge of flirting they had always had in their banter as easily found as if they had just talked earlier this same day. 

Regis laughed, the dark circles under his eyes not seeming any deeper or lighter for how the skin near the edges of his eyes crinkled with the force of his mirth. He gave Geralt a light shake and let go, stepping back and away from him to look along the length of Geralt’s body where it wasn’t hidden behind the flowing nightshirt. “Even when we met quite regularly, it didn’t keep you from trouble. I doubt much could truly keep you from diving head first into the closest puddle of it.” The tease was evident and the scar over Geralt’s heart ached. 

Geralt’s body had changed at multiple points in their long acquaintance. In Regis’s little cottage, the large scar across his chest over his heart had been treated by cool skilled hands. That was in fact, one of the first times they ever kissed. Geralt couldn’t tell what things Regis saw now, what changes he was seeing that so enthralled him, but then again, they had always enthralled each other. 

Decades before Cintra and Ciri’s birth, Regis’s cottage was as much a place he called home as Kaer Morhen. To say he was fascinated by the nails of the higher vampire, even before his own changes, was to undersell it. While high on the pain relieving decoction Regis had made for him, Geralt had kept grabbing for Regis’s hands. The memory was so vivid it was as if he were reliving it, from start to finish.


	2. Born in this world, supping of the whole of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Regis gets a bit of blood, but it's not like he expected, and Geralt is just a big ole monsterfucker nerd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of addiction and how Regis is a recovering blood addict.  
> They accidentally discover Geralt's blood isn't the same narcotic effect as human blood, but the consumption of blood still happens.  
> Be safe with your needs please. If you need more details feel free to leave a message for more exact details.
> 
> Up next? Sex. Lots of sex.

The mirth and chuckles, that his moving those pliant and indulgent fingers this way and that had brought about, only encouraged his behavior. He still doesn’t really know how long he spent tracing those fingers with his own, sliding the edge of his own blunt and ragged edged nails along the wicked curved edge of Regis’s. The way he had carefully pressed and traced each and every millimeter of each finger up to the edge of the fingerless gloves. He had brought the hand captured between his own, up to his face, to sniff the different stains and smells, to see how they differed. To stare in fascination as fingers flexed and curled in his grip, so similar in movement to his own, yet without any of the hitches in movement that even witcher fingers would develop. Absolute control. 

Geralt probably wouldn’t have indulged in licking those fingers without the potions in his system, yet after such a thorough sniffing and visual inspection, it had felt only natural to now taste and explore with his tongue. The chuckles from Regis had felt like permission, and the gentle hand petting back his hair with the unmolested hand was soothing and encouraging. 

Geralt had traced the nail bed with his tongue, eyes drifting most of the way closed, all his focus bent on pulling apart the feel and tastes of the moment. The sharpness was incredible, it felt similar to licking close to the edge of a knife. The taste of mandrake, of parsley and henbane and wolfsbane and more. The faint hint of his own blood, from where these hands had saved his life. The cool texture of the skin, the warmth that radiated from under the skin that felt nothing like a human hand. The way the whole structure seemed mutable, as if it was veined and contained thrice the matter it showed. He had scrunched his face, chasing that feeling, till Regis’s other hand moved from petting his own hair to massaging between his eyebrows. 

“Now, what has your face all scrunched up there?” Regis asked, and Geralt lifted off from where he had fallen to worrying the skin along the second knuckle with the tip of his tongue. 

Geralt blinked a few times, the drugs leaving him lethargic and fuzzy headed. “Can taste- feel, your fingers should be longer. Bigger.” Geralt’s eyes tracked the changes in Regis’s own face with fascination. The eyebrows, two fuzzy grey caterpillars, danced as they moved up on his face, surprise and delight and other emotions too difficult to grasp. Geralt thought it might be interesting to lick them too, just to see if they keep hints of potion fumes or not. 

Regis burst out laughing, a spit wet finger tracing over his eyebrow. “Ah, let’s leave tasting my eyebrows for another day. For the moment, what makes you think my fingers should be longer, my dear deeply drugged witcher?” 

Geralt tilted his head, unsure what parts he had said aloud. But what was important was explaining why Regis, whose hands were always so nimble, seemed like his hands were actually scrunched up tight. “Taste, feel, under the skin, like, they have a lot more. Densely packed veins and bone and” He tries to put it into words but can’t manage it. He shrugs and concludes with a much quieter, nearly sullen, “it doesn’t move right.” 

Regis looks more somber and serious now, his gaze steady as he looked into Geralt’s. The transformation of his hand was as smooth as the motions earlier. Each finger lengthened and shifted. The nails grew at an exponential rate, long deadly claws, each long as a short sword. Geralt eyed them, fascinated to see them so, then shook his head lightly. “Gotta be more than that. Right? Some you that, fills it all in?”

Regis’s smile that time had more fangs to it, his skin had become splotchy along those temples. Oddly his hair was darker. All the front of his face seemed to have flattened and pressed itself up, the nose turning to two deep slits. Pit organs, like a bat’s would be. The far larger eyes were not the usual deep pools of brown so dark it was nearly black on black, but instead a golden, amber-flecked warm wood colored ring reflected in the firelight. Teeth, each fang now as large as Regis’s normal nails, crowded against dark grey brown lips. The upper lip had gone tight and narrow, looking almost like a cat’s mouth, split at the top of the center of the lip. The eyes themselves were recessed from the prominent ridge that had overtaken and shadowed them. The brows had gone thinner where they stretched along that hard protective bone structure. 

It was breathtaking. He was absolutely stunning. It was the first time Geralt had seen a true higher vampire. “You’re beautiful.” He breathed it out, and just as he had thought, more than just the nails were elongated now. The forehead looked almost cleaved, the raised ridges sweeping up and the dark spots descending down from the sharp widow’s peak he still had there. It looked almost as if Regis were halfway to turning into a bat in truth. What a Garakin or Katakan could be if they were refined and polished into a humanoid shape. If anything Regis looked more deadly than all the lesser vampires Geralt had ever faced combined. And something in his gut told him this- wasn’t everything. He was trapped on the bed, but his arms lifted and extended towards Regis, seeking him out fearlessly. 

And without Geralt needing to ask, there was Regis, bringing those impossibly long and large fingers with their blade like nails up to press so delicately to the edges of the bed. His transformed face brought to within easy reach and view of Geralt’s own questing fingers or even mouth. And Geralt, like a blind babe mapping his mother’s features, lifted his hands to sweep sensitive fingertips across the deep vee of Regis’s forehead. 

Where before it had felt almost false to his senses, something fake and not quite real, the grey veins and clammy cool skin was perfectly Regis now. This was more complete and whole than the more human guise Regis often wore. More right to the shapes he couldn’t feel yet somehow knew where under that delicate seeming skin. Geralt’s careful finger pads slipped along the jagged craggy creases and the wrinkled hardened skin that edged above the eyebrow ridges. 

Regis breathed deep each of Geralt’s exhaled breaths, the pits of his nose and the roof of his mouth likely as sensitive or more so than Geralt’s own. There was something about being scented, known so intimately by the larger being above him that left Geralt’s spine tingling. The constant control Regis so casually kept at all times spoke to just how dangerous he really must be. How strong. Geralt knew Regis was incredibly hardy. He knew the smaller seeming man was not just the simple doctor he played at being. But there was knowing and then there was feeling. 

There was sliding his fingertips along those brow ridges to the swooping edges of the sharp and pronounced cheekbones. There was a slight give where he could feel the muscles supporting the ears, longer than his hand from fingertips to wrist, allowing them to move along with him. There was something about how every motion he made was allowed, was gone along with as much or more than being something just Geralt did, that left Geralt more breathless than the pain of his wound had.

Geralt licked his own lips as he finished tracing the lower edge of the ear, the lobe so soft in comparison to the flexible cartilage and muscle of the rest. He had to take a steadying breath as his fingers returned this time to the underside of those impossibly sharp cheekbones. The deep nearly bruised grey of the skin there, so sunken as to make Geralt think of humans starved to the brink of death. Geralt made a soft sound, smoothing so gently across the sunken area towards the strong lower line of Regis’s lower jaw. “Is, does this mean a sign of lacking nutrition? Is blood or something else, a missing fuel for you? Or is this just how you look?” Geralt asks, the need to know, the far too familiar worry too much not to ask despite how awkward it could become. 

Regis’s face is so strange and new to him, the slight tugging of the ears to shift position and changing angle of the skin around the eyes is hard to decipher. He thinks it may be fondness. The tone of voice definitely seems that, if nothing else. “Geralt, as I have told you, blood is like wine, to me. Not exactly a necessity for my diet. In fact, I have sworn it off completely. This is just how I look.” He says it simply, however Geralt can’t forget how the rich honey beer of Kaer Morehen, thick with the flavor of wheat and hops, is a core part of their packing on calories for the next year on the path. Easy calories that stick in the system far better than just eating and drinking water alone. Despite this, he won’t push the issue, dares not. Regis knows himself better than Geralt. This would be like a human telling him not to eat the skin or bones in addition to the meat.

Geralt’s lower lip gets bit between his own teeth, worrying the large cut that is healing slowly there while his fingers start to move up and over from the smooth skin of the jawline to the pronounced and much lighter clay grey of the wrinkled and bunched skin around the teeth and mouth. The clammy texture was nothing like human or witcher skin. It was slightly slick, a faint sheen of oil that seemed protective in nature, stuck to his own skin as he explored. If Geralt had to explain it, it might be similar to the waxy covering to a newborn kid or foal. 

He brings his fingers back licking the oily covering as Regis watches him with brilliant eyes the color of rough worked and impure bronze. It’s beautiful, just as the oils on his finger taste musky. Rich and fattening. Like skin oils but made thicker and more nourishing. Regis seems to be reading some jist of his thoughts on his own face. “That is, think of it as protection from the air of this world. My body, isn’t made for this world. The closer to my comfortable, full state, as you seemed to call it, the more my body reacts to all the minor irritants.” 

Geralt nods, then his brows scrunch up. “You don’t have to stay like this, if it’s uncomfortable or using up too many nutrients.” He says in a rush, the fingers in his mouth popping free with a loud sound, so quickly are they removed to speak. 

Regis seems to smile, those huge fanged teeth showing further back in his mouth. “In truth, while for my body it is uncomfortable, for my mind, this form is the most comforting form. While I was born on this world, and have never known the world my grandparents came from, I still do not feel wholly myself in the fully human guise.” 

Geralt makes a sound, his hands coming up to cup and caress across Regis’s jaw again. His touch traces the flecked dark black and grey spots that mottle the skin there, tracing it down his neck towards his collar and slowly back up, to that jaw. The much lengthened arms bracing to either side of him sway just a fraction, as his fingers move to oh so gently trace those cool lips. 

They are so much narrower than the lips he is used to seeing on Regis. As dark as the area under his eyes, it is hard to say with certainty which is more pressing, the urge to somehow wash away the constant fatigue that seems to plague Regis, or to kiss these lips and taste those fangs. 

Instead his fingers, damp from his own mouth, are met with a pliant and supple tongue. There is a large groove along the tongue, and as he watches, the tongue wraps around his fingers, sucking and pulling eagerly to taste him. Geralt can’t help the bolt of lust he feels at that sight and sensation. Just imagining what it would feel like to have his cock wrapped in that tongue has him twitching under the sheets. 

Regis, on the other hand, has his eyes blown far wider, a shudder moving down his spine as he gives a slow and low exhale. It looks and feels almost like its own ecstatic reaction. “Hmmm like the taste of yourself on me?” He murmurs up to Regis. The words seem to startle Regis and he jerks his head back, the undulations of that tongue on his fingers disappearing as if it had never been there. There was little to no saliva, his fingers cleaner still than they were before. 

Regis breathed out hard, his chin turned up towards his own shoulder. When his voice came it rumbled, ragged and raw as if he was fighting himself to speak. “Your cut. I could taste your blood. It.” Regis closes his mouth in a snap, the fangs overlapping in a way that fascinates Geralt. The front two teeth are so outsized compared with all the rest. 

Geralt doesn’t pull back, but neither does he let himself freeze up. He knows, intimately, how hard it can be to abstain, for those that have lost themselves to forgetting. The ache and familiar siren allure of having numbed pains in Fisstech. His own hands, both the one that was recently so close to those fangs and the one that was only ever touching Regis, cup either side of Regis’s jaw. 

Just like before, the slightest pressure has Regis’s jaw turning back towards him. “Hey, I am sorry. I didn’t think about that. What can I do to help?” He asks it simply, wanting and hoping that Regis can keep talking to him. That this won’t be what drives a wedge between them. 

Regis looks searchingly at Geralt’s own face, as if looking for hints to some great mystery. When Regis speaks his voice keeps pausing as if picking the words is as careful a process as surgery. “Human blood. It’s not nourishing. It’s, like drinking watered down mushroom wine, great for dulling pain but requiring so much to get any real lasting effects. Vampire blood, on the other hand, even of lesser vampires, is nourishing but no more satisfying than a solid meal. The higher the vampire, the more it nourishes. It’s… like the difference between a slice of summer mellon and a chunk of honeycomb for the energy it gives. One tastes sweet but chunk for chunk gives little energy. The other could see one through another night with just a single mouthful.” 

Geralt feels a bit confused at the complete non-answer, blinking his eyes and trying to parse what that all means to him. He gives up and tries to ask. “And what of mine? Witchers are no mere humans, not after all the mutagens we are given. And even among witchers, I am more mutated than most.” The last is said with the same wry and self loathing tone he usually reserves for speaking to himself. There is a deep shame, in his second set of mutations. For all they mark him out as having survived far more than should be possible, they also just mark him out. Not a proper witcher. Not truly part of any group. Even among his brothers he was a different breed entirely. 

Regis’s eyes narrowed and between one blink and the next there were long dangerous claws bracketing his crown, impossibly large fingers caressing his temples to his own chin. “You, are nothing like a human. In all the best ways. Your blood- it, it isn’t vampire, in the strictest sense but, it isn’t… I don’t feel like I am forgetting myself. I don’t feel even the slightest bit drunk. You, your blood? It’s.” He pauses, licking along his fangs with that agile tongue, obviously thinking out his words. “It’s like drinking a feast. Like supping from an elder yet it tastes like a bouquet of many lives. Like tasting of all this alien world. Dozens of flavors I could spend a lifetime trying to unpick.” He seems frustrated with the words, frustrated with their lacking the correct nuance. 

He tries again, holding Geralt’s face in such a gentle grip while Geralt cups his in turn. Even with his hands so enlarged the gloves stretch and strain along the palms, rougher compared to the smooth coolness of Regis’s flesh. The fire snaps and pops, the scents and sounds of the small cottage a background to this important memory. This moment that Geralt feels in his gut could define a change in his life. For better or worse, or just for change’s sake is unsure. But there is a weight to the air, same as when he was selected for the second mutations, or the Pogrom happened. Regis continued then, the spinning thoughts of Geralt frozen and absorbed into the moment as well. Regis moved his own creased and raised forehead down to gently press to Geralt’s own smooth one. “I swore to never drink blood again. Becoming a surgeon, a doctor, was as much a test of my own will as to pay back the near thousand lives I glutted myself on before. Does a butcher mourn a cattle he kills for it’s meat? But I killed dozens a night to seek the taste. But you, less than a drop, and it was, like I had supped from the great High Elder himself. I tingle. Even glutting myself to pain, to the shame of being too full to swallow another gulp, felt anything but mildly relaxed. Dazed at best, the pains of my mind and heart merely set aside for as long as I could keep draining one more gulp of lifeblood. You? You, I could sip from and feel I could cure away death itself from humans.” The words were whispered, intimate and close but there was a pressured desperation to them. 

A secret between them. Geralt gently traced along Regis’s own cheekbones down to those wicked and jutting fangs. He tapped the lower lip, exactly where the stinging cut was on his own lip. Then he whispered. “If it won’t hurt you, won’t make you crave another’s blood, I would happily and freely let you have what I spill.” 

Regis’s body pressed all around Geralt’s, knees and legs bracing over and along his own, those lengthened limbs all gathering him close. However for all he was surrounded, there was no weight on Geralt. He didn’t feel trapped. If anything, he felt treasured. Regis moved so slowly as he began to shift down, as if under Yrden. While he had been given permission, he seemed hesitant to the point of skittishness, his fangs and tongue both descended to Geralt’s own with those large golden-brown eyes sweeping his face the whole time. Geralt slid his hands up, fingers digging into that soft silky hair that tufted out above Regis’s temples. He gently cupped him, not pulling or pressing. Letting Regis go at his own pace as he would.

The first tentative touch of tongue to his cut, was near electrical. Something about it left him hardening in his pants. Regis, in reaction, was now trembling much like a newborn foal. His eyes were wet, the oilsheen that always seemed to coat them glistening and seeming close to overflowing. He slid his tongue further away, eyes closing as if too heavy to keep lifted before reopening slowly. He stared up into Geralt’s eyes, looking half guilty at what he had done. 

Geralt, with a bubbling warmth in his stomach that seemed to have no reason for being there except to make physical the fondness he felt for his partner before him, gently squeezed over the side of Regis’s crown. Geralt’s throat felt thick, not just with lust but some other nameless feeling he had to shove aside lest it overwhelm him. “Hey, being a witcher’s a dangerous job. Even if it’s just some tiny part of me, there’s a comfort in knowing you’ll carry some tiny bits of me with you.” 

Regis, without missing a beat, laughed, reverting to his more human form to kiss Geralt hard. Tears leaked from Regis’s closed eyes to press along Geralt’s own dry chin, as they kissed hard and long, tongues battling. Where their hips met with proof of how erotic both of them had found the moment, they rubbed and pressed together with equal fervor to their lips.


	3. Regis Licks what Geralt Slicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copious amounts of precum and rimming and body worship between a pair of monster fucking xenophilic nerds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Copious amounts of precum and rimming and body worship between a pair of monster fucking xenophilic nerds. Also feels. They keep catching feels. Not that they will TALK about said feels. Gosh no.

Geralt melted into the kiss, his tongue tracing Regis’s mouth with a devouring hunger that left him feeling as winded as Regis likely had felt at the taste of his blood. Geralt wanted to ask what the taste was like between forms. However the thought was elusive in the face of the all consuming rush he was feeling now. Regis’s hands were back to their usual slightly gnarled shape and size. Each joint slightly swollen and each finger ending in that thick curved and pointed nail that was no more human than Geralt’s own eyes. The edges of his fingers picked and slid along the buckles and lacing of Regis’s clothes. His own body was naked except for bandages under the covers. 

Geralt struggled with the buckles, a bit frustrated at them all, even as his tongue traced Regis’s fangs as the kiss was changed a little more. Regis worked the ties and buckles Geralt did not yet reach, his eyes opening wide, the dark earthy brown of his eyes noticeable even in human form with as close as they were now. Geralt savored the slight hint of pain on his tongue as he swirled and licked along and over Regis’s tongue. There was shock in Regis’s eyes, the sharp fangs lengthening a little despite him. It was evident, from how his hands dropped from his clothes to once more brace on either side of Geralt’s head, that it was more of a struggle than could easily be tamed. 

Something about making Regis pant like that, making the man that worked so hard to seem small and mostly harmless rumble low in his throat, left Geralt dripping precum where his cock rubbed against the sheets. Geralt shoved at the shirts, wanting to tug them off so next time Regis transformed he could see more than just what came through the opened shirt cuffs or stuck out from the bottoms of his leggings. 

Regis seemed dazed, unmoving as a marble statue before all at once he was moving. Or more, he was melting into a black mist and the clothes were flopping to the bedding like a shed skin from a snake. Geralt’s eyes went wide and he watched with absolute fascination. “You can move as a mist at will? How far? Can you take the clothes? How much weight can you take with you- Also why didn’t you just do that to begin with?” The barrage of questions, and the raw intrigued delight on Geralt’s face, where he propped himself up, had less to do with the formerly erotic scene than the last line would suggest. 

Regis, with his head tilted back, laughed, shoving one hand up into his hair to tug it back from his face and settle it once more. His eyebrow was raised with a sardonic tilt, lips curling even as the faint crackling around his eyes gave away the truth of his deep mirth in the moment, despite how he shook his head and clicked his teeth. “There is something erotic about the urgency to remove one’s clothes by hand. Also, my dear witcher, I knew you. The moment you saw me do that, you forgot all about that tent in the sheets, and all your thoughts went from sex to investigating.” 

Geralt, had the decency to flush at that, before grinning shamelessly back. “Who says I can’t do both? Have you ever slept with a witcher? We could make it sexy explorations?” He didn’t bother to play up the leer just dragged his eyes slowly down Regis’s body before pausing at the fact that Regis had no nipples at all. The smoothness of the chest, lacking both hairs and nipples, left Geralt’s head tilting, his eyes widening before he finally dragged his eyes further down. 

Regis seemed to know exactly what Geralt was caught on, shaking his head and chuckling, but his smile seeming indulgent. “Yes, nipples are rather redundant on me. In any of my forms. I can make them appear but when naturally moving to this guise and form, it doesn’t come to me.” He moved closer, leaning down over Geralt, pulling the sheet aside from Geralt’s body all at once to expose his naked body to his gaze. “Let us make it a trade of sexy explorations, shall we? For every indulgence we give one another, another is humored in return. Information, exploration, we can trade in it all together.” 

Geralt, channeling the raw impulsive curiosity-sating recklessness that once saw him tying bees to objects to see how many it took to lift things, piped up, “As long as there are also fluid exchanges, I rather look forward to it.” 

Regis pressed his forehead to Geralt’s, laughing into the kiss as he took complete control of the motion this time. There was something about how human-like Regis felt while being utterly implacable in his command of the kiss. The gentleness laid side by side with the passion, and wrapped in that incredible and utterly disproportionate strength. Geralt moaned into the kiss, his own mouth opening wider and tongue tracing those fangs once more. 

This time, however, Regis used his own tongue to explore Geralt’s mouth. He seemed endlessly fascinated with Geralt’s own sharp and displaced eye teeth. The roughly filed fangs all witchers were constantly dealing with erupting. Regis pulled back, looking utterly fascinated as his careful finger moved up to trace along Geralt’s lower lip. 

Geralt opened to the finger, and there was that banked simmering to their lust once more, Regis leaning to more fully examine Geralt’s teeth in the firelight. His gaze was intense, a focus sharp enough to cut. Geralt felt that tingle down his spine once more, something about being examined so leaving tingles of danger dancing up and down his spine. 

Once Regis had seemed to look his fill Geralt spoke up. “We lose most of the molars and front teeth. But the eye teeth- they’re constantly erupting. Seen a wolf witcher that didn’t file them. Looked almost like he had boar tusks.” The delighted fascination on Regis’s face shouldn’t feel like praise, and yet it most assuredly did. Geralt’s stomach flipped as he opened a little wider, showing that his jaw could unhinge slightly. Then he slowly clenched the teeth shut and exerted the pressure that could crack even thigh bones, doing it hard enough Regis could probably see the muscles standing out with how he could feel them straining under his skin.

For some reason, the fascinated looks kept feeling both like praise and far more dangerous than being drunk from ever could. Geralt shuddered through the next breath, shared as it was. The taste of Regis on his lips as he licked them, was muted enough to not be overwhelming. It tasted like magic felt, a tingling that was discordant and felt other while at the same time feeling energizing. Hints of mandrake, of the thick dark rye that the higher vampire was always making in this cottage. A mix of familiar inputs that were so new for all they were also comforting. 

Geralt returned the favor. As his fingertips pressed to Regis’s lower lip, there was a sense of weight. Of his actions pushing a line, one Regis didn’t seem opposed to stepping over with him. The taste of Regis’s mouth was so overwhelming, yet as his fingers and gaze slowly took in the teeth, the small imperfections that gave away how this mouth before him was not the native shape but an imitation of humans, Geralt could say that there was as much or more to be overwhelmed by intellectually as there had been sexually. “Change?” He asked softly, wanting desperately to really take in Regis’s transformed mouth. To see and explore it fully. 

Regis’s mouth changed under and around his fingertips. Those teeth were so large. They felt smooth, and that incredible tongue was back. It was long, sliding easily out of the mouth to almost a full double handspan past the lips. There Regis flexed and curled it, showing how it could move liquids, how it could lave and swirl around his fingers. For all the human form was cool, this tongue was warmer, only a half degree cooler than Geralt’s own far cooler than human body. “Fuck, that’s incredible, is this your natural form?” He whispers, in awe of the uses and versatility he can imagine for that tongue. 

Regis, chuckles again. He pushes back a little more, and Geralt finally really takes in the rest of the now looming form above him. The shifting had been so smooth and seamless he had missed the sheer scope at first. Where before Regis had seemed to only stretch, now, his body grew in all directions. His ears lengthened even further than before as his chest went far broader. A smattering of downy looking hairs settled down his shoulders and along his sides. But far more striking than how Regis was both far broader and taller than him now, was the beautiful sweep of wings that had sprouted from Regis’s back like dragon wings by way of bat wings. The span of them was such that as Regis partially unfurled them they touched both walls of the cottage at once crossing the entire length of the room. 

Geralt lifted his own palms to tentatively caress, tracing down the fur of Regis’s shoulders, as downy soft as it looked. Then, with that same wondrous feeling and the infinite care of that awe he was feeling, his fingertips traced the delicate veins of the thin webbing. It was incredible. Gorgeous. Geralt had always been fascinated by flight. His earliest memories were of yearning to BE a dragon. Not for the power, or the beauty of their forms, but for their ability to fly. To move through the air as they did. 

Regis watched Geralt’s face, as he traced the wings, the look on his face seeming fond as he spoke up. “Actually, while this is the most natural material form, it is not what I would consider to be my truest form. Higher vampires are not born corporeal. We are born a black mist, quite literally the combination of the blood and essences of two higher vampires, with the aid and blood of one of the few we call the Elders. It is only due to frustration with being unable to touch and interact with the world that we learn to make a physical corporeal form at all. Our physical bodies, what you can touch, are more a reflection of our inner selves, of our minds and our emotions than anything natively granted by biology. While this form as it is now, is the one I personally enjoyed most before I learned to look like a human. Over the centuries that followed, I came to see the face you have spent much more time gazing at than this one, as the near mandatory default amongst humans.” 

Geralt listened to all the details with rapt attention, slowly digging apart the densely packed information to grasp what he was being told. Higher vampires, Regis, were beings with form as a willful creation. Beings for whom bodies were, not the only way to be. Even dopplers are created with a physical body. Ghosts and wraiths come from a body. This information was so shocking that Geralt missed what Regis had said next. 

The next thing he was aware of was Regis’s large wings blocking out most of the light as that clever and agile tongue moved to trace over his own skin above and then below the bandages. “Meanwhile, from what I have gathered, you were once human. For all you are like no other human I have known, you are also unlike any other witcher I have heard of or met.” Regis presses the words over the skin of Geralt’s belly, teeth slipping smooth fronts and menacing edges along the skin of Geralt’s travel lean belly. 

The winter was the only time Witchers often had the luxury and privilege of abundance. Even on the road, it was a rare day a witcher could keep more calories than would be expended in day to day fighting and upkeep. Regis’s voice and the feel of his teeth turned the zinging tingles that shot up his spine into embers to instead glimmer along his nerves to his hips. Geralt was swept up in how something that should feel menacing pressed so close to vulnerable inner organs, with only a bit of muscle and skin to protect them, instead felt as erotic as a long and slow blowjob. 

Geralt’s cock stood tall and proud, thick as the gap between the base of his index finger and the base of his thumb, wide as his thumb was long. The head was purpling with need, precum slicking and dripping down from the crown like glazing on a noble’s tart. The sticky strands of it dripped from his cockhead to spill across his own balls as he breathed out in a shuddery imitation of the long and heavy exhale from Regis. 

It was so seldom Geralt could just indulge in his sense of smell. Could scent deeply and enjoy exploring another. So when Regis took a deep breath, obviously scenting him fully, Geralt wanted only to let Regis have his fill. His thighs spread wider, the tight muscles flexing under the skin as he tilted his hips to offer all of himself up for being scented, from back of ass to the full creases at the top of his thighs. 

Geralt flushed as he looked down at his cock, dribbling that warm honey thin precum all over his own balls. The glistening of it there as Regis presses his flattened nose closer, mouth open to taste and smell as deeply as possible. Geralt spoke up, hand pushing into Regis’s hair, voice lowered with lust. “What of my other fluids? What do I smell like to you? How do I taste in the air?” He wants, needs to know. To hear what Regis is thinking and feeling, this is less about learning of higher vampires now, and once more about the simmering sexual energy between them. 

Regis meets his eyes, each eye so much larger than his, the sense of the rest of the world being all but shut out by those wings cupped over and around them like a canopy in the woods. “The scent of you, the taste of you at the top of my mouth and across my palette,” He shudders as his tongue slips out, curling and brushing so close to Geralt’s skin he can feel the heat difference in the air from it’s passing, before being pulled all curled to cup the air from next to his skin, up into his mouth. The low near-growling sound is as much a physical sensation as an auditory one, from how close Regis’s mouth and throat is to his aching cock. That growl weaves into the words, rumbling and so low as to make the hairs on Geralt’s neck stand up as Regis continues. “Geralt I want to devour you.” His voice is ragged as if he was winded from holding himself back from that impulse. Where their gazes are locked together, the pupils are blown wide, leaving the irises narrowed into dark glinting rings that leave Geralt’s own doing the same with mirrored lust. 

There isn’t much thought to slipping his fingers through the slippery precum to smear it along the crease of his thigh. To soak the scent of himself into it, and to also soak the scent of his arousal into his skin. To mark them both, to feed into that primal urge to scent and be scented. Geralt’s fingers swirl along the edge of his asshole, the ridged pucker of it flexing under the slick feel. There is an almost physical snapping, a sound that may be purely imaginary as Geralt is hauled up, knees pressed near to his ears by two massive taloned hands. Regis’s flat face and sharp teeth pressing close enough every breath gushes up and over every bit of him covered in precum. The burst of slightly warmer then far cooler sensations each time has his cock twitching out another fat pearl of precum and his asshole clenching and dancing as if beckoning in a lover from a snowstorm. 

Geralt barely has time to think of anything before that tongue is swirling and probing at the sensitive edge of his furl. It's wider than a finger, yet the muscle flexes and contracts as it slips and presses along his rim. He can feel the way his body opens, yet it doesn’t shove in. Instead with each pass it swirls and caresses around the edge, slipping to pull and press just inside and just outside the rim itself. The tip and sides of the tongue massaging with a surface so much smaller than fingertips could be. With more precise pressure too. Geralt’s hips thrust up, a mostly involuntary action that is immediately rewarded by that tongue slipping a little further into him. Regis tilts his face closer to his cock, the wet sloppy length pressing up and along the groove between Regis’s forehead plates. The edges of his wrinkled brow ridge pressing along the base of his cock to smear and grind over Geralt’s balls. 

Geralt’s entire back bows at the sensation mix, so overwhelming he is making garbled sounds that have no meaning, no intent besides trying to push the raw flood of sensations into some expression to release some of them. His own breath is coming in heaves as his hips grind up again, seeking the feel of being cupped by cool slippery skin and those hard forehead bone ridges. It is almost like rutting against a rock hard set of pecs. And every time the tip of his cock is smearing up into that fluffy downy dark hair, he is leaving sticky gooey trails of precum smeared all over it. Marking Regis even as he is being pulled apart with absolutely devastating efficiency. 

Geralt’s feet press to the muscles and soft fur of the broad edge along the top of his shoulderblades. The bunched muscles that make the base for those glorious and huge wings becoming a perfect spot to grip with his toes even as his fingers curl in the thick hair at the base of Regis’s skull. For the first time in his entire adult life, he truly does not have to watch his strength. For the first time he can completely abandon himself to grinding and trust his partner is stronger than him, wants him to. Because the more he tugs and pulls and thrusts his cock up, the deeper and more eagerly Regis’s tongue slips into him. It’s fucking into him so deep and hard he swears it’s like he’s being fucked by his own cock. 

It is when he realizes that with every grinding thrust of his cock along the deep groove of Regis’s forehead, that that means his slicked up balls are also grinding up and over Regis’s nose, absolutely drenching and drowning him in the scent and taste of nothing but pure unadulterated him, and only him, that he feels like he shatters. He’s had orgasms before. He’s had frankly amazing orgasms. But this one feels like it starts in every part of his body all at once. It starts in his toes where they grip and tug at mounded muscle under kitten soft fur. It starts from his ankles where the wing joint is pressed as if it is hugging his feet to keep them there. It starts at the stretch of his bent up and spread wide thighs. It starts from deep in his ass. It starts from the well loosened and absolutely sloppy rim. It pools and ignites in his twitching balls. It lifts and gushes from his cock where he is spasming, grinding himself in jerky motions as if trying to push his cock into Regis himself. As if trying to combine them into one person. And it also blooms from behind his heart, an all consuming choking feeling, something he can’t name or face that barrels over him like a tidal wave or a concussive force. 

Geralt sees stars, his vision becoming some wild mutable thing. Every part of his body is twitching in small little spasms that leave him feeling weaker than a newborn foal. His legs are splayed down onto the bed now, laid out like a frog on a cutting board. Yet the look of his cum smeared all over Regis’s face, over those dark brow ridges and cheekbones, is enough to leave Geralt gasping with that feeling in his chest. Witcher stamina means that even as he is so sated, his body is not letting him go fully soft. Something about the white strands of his cum pearling off of Regis’s hair and wings, is making Geralt’s mind go wild. Watching Regis’s tongue lift to lick off his cheekbones and brow ridges is painfully hot despite how he feels completely uncoordinated from the last orgasm still. 

Regis is purring, looking as sated and pleased as Geralt, yet also a bit smug, perhaps. Geralt can’t be sure. But Regis by far deserves to feel smug. Even as Geralt thinks that he is hauled up, hips curled once more so Regis can look into his gaping and sloppy wet asshole. Geralt can feel the air inside, can feel the cold clench inducing spasms it brings with it. Regis licks and scrapes Geralt’s cum from his own forehead to gather up, before slowly pushing it into Geralt’s ass. The fact that it’s his own cum being pushed into him is so raunchy, it almost makes him forget how incredible watching that long agile tongue at work was. 

Regis’s tongue is warm, a degree or two warmer than his own body. And Geralt’s head flops back as he really gets to see and feel the teeth that are pressing above and below his asshole. All those razor sharp fangs skimming and brushing to either side of it. It definitely shouldn’t add as much to the power of the moment as it does. Geralt clenches harder around that slippery gooey cum covered tongue, wanting to keep as much of it in him as he could as the tongue slowly slips out. 

Geralt’s messy cock is almost fully hard again as Regis slowly moves up. Those massive hands cup his ankles, pressing them well above Geralt’s own head so he is near bent in half. It’s so perfect, how Regis lets him feel powerless in all the best ways. Lets him feel contained and safe in ways he can’t quite fully grasp for how alien it feels. The kiss they share this time tastes of Geralt, soaked with it as they smear sloppy kisses on each other. “Geralt, you are so incredibly perfect, my dear witcher.” Regis breathes as the kiss slowly trails off. There is something massive, almost fist sized at Geralt’s sloppy and once more gaping hole. He’s almost certain Regis’s cock right now might give a stallion competition in truth. He really can’t wait to feel it. 

The fat head presses against and along the loose rim, once, again, and then, on the third try, Geralt is stretching. It’s far wider and deeper than anything he can compare to in the moment. Far more than enough to leave Geralt’s hands gripping Regis’s shoulders as his toes curl tightly before relaxing. Regis’s kiss is claiming, slipping deeper into Geralt’s mouth to begin thrusting and fucking in a tandem stroke to match how his cock is reshaping Geralt’s guts to his own pleasure. Geralt swallows greedily and eagerly as that flexible tongue shoves and fucks deep enough to bulge his throat. Thoughts flee in the face of this onslaught. 

Geralt is lost for what feels like an eternity of thrusting, cock so deep he swears he can taste it from his ass. Just the flared fat tip is tugging at his rim, while above, his throat bulges obscenely from the tongue absolutely claiming his throat and face in a fucking as relentless as it is perfect. The thrusts allow just enough air, just enough back and forth to keep pushing Geralt farther and farther and farther till he is a writhing mess. There is no coordination, no desires but to enjoy and enjoy moving, so perfectly pinned under the far larger in every way.

This time, when Geralt cums, it’s not violent, it’s like being lifted up and lulled into sleep. It’s being cared for, loved. Regis’s soft voice purring in his ear words he can’t remember but knows were praise of some sort for how they keep making him feel that burst of elation, pride and joy to this very day. What he can remember is the weight of Regis’s hand on his belly, once more mostly human seeming, soft kisses being pressed to Geralt’s small nearly invisible facial scars. He can remember the soft words Regis whispered then. “Now, you have a bit of me in you as well. You’ll have to bring it back to me.”

Geralt felt himself flush even as he buried his face in Regis’s neck, knowing even the tips of his ears felt hot with the force of his blush. “Sentimental.” He chided, but gave a kiss above Regis’s collarbones.


	4. Settling Into New Grooves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More oral sex. More world and xeno building. More feels. They maybe even manage to almost say them. 
> 
> Hope Brit and all the other readers enjoy this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warnings: 
> 
> Mention of a nick on Regis's cock that heals very fast, but is still there for a few seconds.
> 
> Emotions communicated across blood drinking granting emotional telepathy.

The overwhelming memory, the vivid experience of that first time slipped away as quickly as it had come over him as Regis’s hands moved over his body, so close Geralt could see the way the light seemed to bend and warp around him.

Regis’s hands were warmer now than ever before. Especially in his most human seeming form. Geralt and Regis moved through getting onto the bed, and while it was so similar to their first night of lovemaking, this time felt completely different. Geralt had explored every inch of Regis, in both his forms as many times as he himself had been explored. Yet right now he was more keenly aware of Regis than ever before in his life. 

Regis slowly mapped his hands across Geralt’s chest, pausing to cup and press his hands over Geralt’s heart, the scar there almost like a mark of the start of their relationship as lovers. Regis leaned over him to kiss him, the world seeming to warp and ripple around him as he keeps up the kiss. Where before the transition between one form and another had seemed so seamless and effortless, now Geralt could quite literally feel the shifting of the energy. He could sense it, deep in his own body. As if the beloved vampire above him were tearing apart and rebuilding a thousand parts of himself each time. 

Geralt felt the air knock out of him even as he carefully rolled them up and over enough that Geralt could begin to work his way down Regis’s body. He nuzzled and nipped his way down, wanting, needing something he couldn’t name. There was a tension, an energy in the air. It was choking, nearly stifling in its weight, so many unsaid words stringing themselves together like chains wrapping a gate wheel. 

The kisses continued till he was where he felt he needed, had to be right now. He had to prove to himself Regis is real. Regis is here. He isn’t… this is not a dream. He nuzzles the cock above him, slowly licking along the massive head. At the burst of flavors and sensations across his tongue, he accidentally nips, breaking skin. There is a hiss from above him, however the flavors that had been so overwhelming from just Regis’s precum, became like being punched in the face with emotions. 

Geralt could feel Regis’s love for him. Taste it. He could taste the joy, the bemusement, the shock, the worry, and threaded in every part of it, every single second of it, he could feel and taste and know in his bones how much Regis loves him. It’s a love so large, so encompassing and complete that not only had he chosen what amounted to a death sentence for the sake of saving Geralt before, Geralt knew without a doubt that Regis would do so again in a heartbeat. The love he could taste in that blood before the tiny wound had fully healed, resonated within him. 

Geralt nuzzled the cock before him, throat feeling thick with emotions he couldn’t express or put into words. He couldn’t speak- but he could show. He could and he would. Geralt set to sucking and licking, every drop of precum smashing that love against his mind. It rattled Geralt. This proof, this absolute weight and certainty that he was not just loved, but cherished. That Regis felt more complete with him beside him, the same as Geralt had keenly felt the absence of the higher vampire nearly every other day they were apart. 

Geralt lost himself slowly in working Regis’s cock, pressing and working himself into deep throating the massive cock before him. Time slowly lost meaning but the heat, the tingling warmth of Regis’s precum and that scant few drops of blood was suffusing his entire body. Geralt swore, right now, he could walk away from the path, never to return to it if that were truly Regis’s desire. 

When the orgasm came, Geralt swallowed every drop. His entire body felt lazy, loose and sated in a way that went far beyond the lassitude of a truly stunning orgasm. Regis carefully dragged Geralt up the bed, wrapping him in his arms and both of them in his wings as they laid out on the bed. Regis pressed his forehead to Geralt’s, their eyes meeting and the weight of unspoken things now felt less like chains and more a stack of slightly suffocating pillows. No great danger in one or two but only an issue if allowed to stay piled up without relief or organization. 

Regis spoke up softly, answering a question Geralt hadn’t even really thought to formulate yet. “Yes. I could taste things from you too. It. There was a lot in my life- I could not really find it in myself to like, let alone love. Yet, when I tasted you, I could feel and taste, how what you loved about me, wasn’t one or two pieces in spite of the rest. It was, and always was, all of me. Me as a whole. Me as the person who had done those things and then grown away from them.” 

The whispers of his breath across Geralt’s face left shivers creeping up and down his spine. Geralt burrowed a little closer into the intertwining hug, unaware of how his shivers were more than just subconscious. Regis continued, as if being the one opening himself so fully wasn’t a heavy load. Geralt wanted to stop Regis, even at the same time he kept his eyes open both mentally and physically as he watched Regis. 

“Even before Dettlaff scraped me together and worked to restore my body, it was in your love of me, I restored my own heart. You saved me, still save me, every day.” Regis leaned closer, lips changing enough to give a proper kiss. 

Geralt kissed back eagerly, pushing as much love as he could into it. The kiss lingered, neither one willing to break it early. When finally it was broken, Geralt found words spilling out. Words he hadn’t really let himself look too closely at. “I thought, for so long, I have to always be holding on. I have to always keep myself in check. Never just be, not, not in a long time. I- don’t know if I could have been as good a father to Ciri as I was, without you. It was in how I could let go, could absolutely abandon myself to you, to the moment, that I came to learn it would not always end in grief and loss.” Geralt squeezed a little tighter, his chest aching. “Feeling, is different than feeling that fluttering possibility or feeling it in actions.” He tries to express the ball of emotions in his chest. However the tangled knot doesn’t move. 

Regis shares a soft smile, before nicking his tongue on a fang and pressing into another kiss, slow and deep. It rocked Geralt, the tiny droplets of blood more potent and sharp than a thousand words could be. This time as the kiss broke, it was Regis that spoke to break the silence. “It took years of tasting you, to really feel your love. To be able to accept it.” His voice was far softer than it should be, almost as if saying it in a normal speaking tone would break the moment. 

Geralt pushed the lump in his chest and throat aside, breath hitching as he says, “I am glad we’re both sentimental fools for the other. It means we have as long as it takes.” His eyes were soft for all his tone was sassy. He wasn’t letting go of Regis. This, here and now, by Regis’s side, was his path now. Even among witchers he was more vampire than Wolf School witcher now. 

It wasn't near as scary a fact as it once was. Actually, if anything, it was comforting. Just as Regis has been for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope Brit and all the other readers enjoy this!
> 
> Comments are lifeblood!


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